Preview of God Sent A Tramp

There were dozens of cars between them and the steam locomotive engine. The only sound here was the soothing, rhythmic rumble of steel wheels clacking along metal rails.

It had put them to sleep.

A sudden raucous roar tore through the boxcar, jerking them awake, to stare at a nasty face crowned with a railroad cap.

“Off my train,” he growled as he swung a smoking shotgun from the open door he had fired through to the two men.

Theo hurled himself out the same door. Bo rose, pointed imploringly to his bindle stick a few feet away, the bandana stuffed with all his earthly possessions. The man sneered, raised his shotgun, and aimed. Bo dashed to the opposite door and leaped into whatever awaited him in the rural countryside.

He barely cleared the rail bed embankment, hit feet-first at the foot of it, and tumbled into baked dirt sprinkled with weeds. He started to rise. Pain erupted from his ankle; he yelped in agony and lay out in the parched grass and thorns, gritting his teeth until the misery subsided.

Minutes went by, several. The sound of the train had long waned. All was quiet. More minutes passed; many.

“Bo!”

“Over here, Theo.”

Silence for several seconds, then, “Over where?”

Bo swallowed a deep breath, called into the sky.

“By the track, in the weeds.”

“Stand up, wave, something.”

“Can’t; hurt my ankle.”

Bo lay still, periodically called out to his friend.

“See me?”

“Not yet. I’m walking the track.”

More minutes, not many, then a sympathetic voice.

“Which ankle?” He knelt by Bo.

“Right one.”

Theo stared at flesh swollen above a weathered shoe.

“I’ll take off your shoe; find you a walking stick.”

“Just the stick; doesn’t hurt like it did.”

Theo’s eyes narrowed. “What’s it feel like?”

“Like I turned it. I’ve done that before. Just a stick.”

“Okay.” And Theo went to a lonely pecan and brought back a stubby branch.

“Figure you can put your hand in this Y at the top.”

He helped a grimacing Bo rise and gave him the stick.

“Thanks,” Bo said. “My bindle’s on the train, he wouldn’t let me get it. Where’s yours?”

“Same place.”

Bo shook his head, stared across the windswept terrain.

“What’s a bull doing on board between stops?”

“He weren’t no bull; a brakeman or something, bored, mad at his boss, who knows? Took it out on us.”

“Ain’t got no extra shirt, socks, nothing.”

“We’ll find a scarecrow.”

“In Texas? They don’t dress their cows.”

Theo shrugged, scanned the track in each direction. “No idea where we are; let’s head one way or the other.”

“We can’t walk to El Paso.”

“No, but we can’t stay here either.”

“Why not? Another train will come by.”

“Uh, huh, going fast, you limping; let’s walk.”

They set off opposite the rising morning sun, figuring this way every step got them a little closer to hobo-friendly El Paso. Progress was slow. The rail bed wasn’t easy for a lame man.

Before too long they espied a road crossing. It was not a settlement, no reason for a train to slow down. They reached it and studied the blazing, glassy horizon in all directions.

“We’ll need water soon. Getting hot.”

“Well – – if we’re heading west, going left will take us south; sooner or later we’ll hit the Rio Grande.”

“El Paso is west, Theo.”

“El Paso’s on the Rio Grande.”

“But,” Bo protested, then shrugged, followed Theo.

The dirt road was easier on Bo and their progress picked up. Soon a distant sound of a gasoline engine got their attention. They turned and saw a cloud of dust chugging up the road.

“What if that’s the law,” Bo moaned.

“Then we get clean striped clothes, room and board, and steady work on a chain gang,” Theo grinned.

A pickup truck puttered toward them. They stepped to the side and watched it come near, and then stop. The cowboy behind the wheel took off his Stetson, wiped his brow on his shirt sleeve, eyed the two, focused on Theo.

“Lookin’ for a day’s work?”

“Yes sir.”

“Climb in. Hacer espacio,” he called over his shoulder to two Mexican looking passengers in the truck bed. Theo and Bo began to stride to the back of the truck.

“Just you,” the rancher said, pointing to Theo. “Can’t use a one-armed worker. Sorry.”

Theo’s eyes darted to Bo then the driver.

“Can we just take him where he can find water?”

The grizzled man sniffed and snorted while scanning the road ahead, then nodded. They scurried into the bed of what looked to be about a 1925 Chevy and the journey resumed.

As they rumbled along, Bo noticed that one of their fellow travelers was staring at him. He stared back.

“How did you lose your arm, amigo?”

“You speak English.”

He grinned. “Sometimes, when it makes sense to.”

Bo chuckled then pointed to the remains of his left arm, which ended in a stub just above his elbow.

“A trench in Belgium, fifteen years ago.”

His ‘amigo’ nodded. “Stupid war.”

“Never heard of a smart one,” Bo said.

“Where we going?” Theo interrupted.

“His ranch. Yesterday we did fencing all day, got eighty cents and a promise of work today.”

“Eighty cents. I’ll fence for that. He feed you?”

“Bread and a bite of dried meat.”

Theo’s head bobbed. “Better than I’ve had for days.”

Just then the driver slowed, stopped, and turned to face them.

“This creek bed has a couple pools just upstream. And there’s a stand of cottonwoods for shade.”

“Thanks,” Bo said as he got up to climb off. He paused at the tailgate for a last appeal. “My right arm’s strong.” Bo was six-two, lean but well-built, solid.

“Sorry. Can’t do it.”

Bo nodded, descended; the work crew pulled away.

Dust swirled behind the departing ranch truck. A few seconds later Bo turned to the creek bed. There was some mud, hinting that water might not be far. For easier footing he walked along the left bank, at the edge of a field.

In a few minutes he came to a cool pocket beneath tree branches that overhung the creek. As the rancher had promised, there were two pools of water. His ankle no longer hurt but, from experience, he knew it was vulnerable. Very carefully, he descended the short bank, lay down before one of the pools, and began to lap water into his dry throat.

He was distracted by a growl, and froze. It sounded like a dog, a few yards away. Slowly, he turned his head and saw a mixed Collie/Sheppard eyeing him from the bank.

“Easy, boy,” he softly cooed. That drew a single bark and no change in the animal’s countenance.

“Spook, what’re you after?”

Bo’s attention drifted further from the bank to a boy of maybe fourteen, wearing loose brown pants rolled up a lot, an oversized blue shirt, sleeves folded up, straw hat.

Caution and curiosity seemed to struggle within the youth when he spotted Bo. Wonder prevailed, and he strolled to the bank, revealing that he held a fishing pole and was barefoot.

“Who are you?”

Bo cleared his throat, glanced about.

“Name’s Bo.”

The boy cocked his head.

“You a ranch hand?”

“Could be. Just traveling by, got thirsty.”

Now the lad’s eyes narrowed and he uttered through clenched teeth: “you a hobo, a tramp?”

Bo spread his left stump and right arm. “Just passing through; not lookin’ to make no trouble for nobody.”

“This ain’t your land.”

“I know. Can I wait here till my friend gets off work and comes for me? I won’t bother nobody.”

They eyed one another a few moments then, turning, he spoke. “I’ll ask Ma. Watch him, Spook.” He walked off.

Bo sighed, breathed deeply, eyed Spook, who stood like a somber sentry, fixed on the shabbily dressed, smelly intruder.

“Ain’t gonna bother nobody, Spook. No trouble.”

Spook’s reply was a low, rumbling growl. Bo sat still, opting to wait and see how this played out. He broke eye contact with the dog but kept him in his peripheral vision. Seconds turned to minutes. Minutes dragged. The boy reappeared on the bank.

“Ma says you can hoe the garden, she’ll feed you, then you leave. And she’s got her gun real handy.”

Bo nodded. “OK.”

“What happened to your arm?”

“The war.”

“Can you hoe?”

“Sure.”

Finally, a grin crept out of the boy’s dirty face.

“I’m Andy. Come on. Any funny business, Spook will tear you apart.”

“No funny business, I promise.”

He crept up the bank. At the crest, Bo stopped again, staring into the barrel of a pistol. She was a tall, lean woman, about his age, long blondish hair, tangled and dirty, framing a sun-burnt freckled face; brown eyes.

The revolver was in her right hand, an old six-shooter. A hoe in her other hand suddenly sprang through the air straight toward Bo. Instinctively, he dodged toward his left, extended his right hand, and caught the missile just in time.

They eyed each other a second, then she said, “You hoe like you catch, maybe we get along.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Walk ahead of me to the garden by the house.”

Bo did as he was told, followed by Spook, Andy, and the boy’s ma, till she called “stop, don’t move; Spook – –  Stay.”

He froze. The rustle of the parched weeds he’d been tramping through ceased, the noise replaced by a rattling to his left and a click to his rear. Warily, he moved his eyes and saw that it was coiled, ready to strike.

Then its head flew off as a boom cracked from behind him. Spook ran to the writhing body of the headless snake and growled. “Off, Spook.” Andy picked it up.

“You pretty good with that, ma’am. Thank you.”

“I can shoot a little, when needed. Remember that.”

“You won’t need to on my account.”

“You keep walking up on side winders, I might.”

“Yes ma’am. On to the garden now?”

“Yeah.”

Shortly he was beside several rows of struggling vegetables that looked scorched. The weeds were in better shape than the crop, or the tiny clapboard house beside it.

“You need me to hoe these weeds?”

“I do. I’ll watch a minute, make sure you can tell a weed from a tater, and then go in. Spook and Andy will stay here. You have any doubt I could put you down from inside if needed?”

“No ma’am, no doubt at all. And it won’t be needed.”

“Start, then, at the top of that first row.”

He did. His right arm was, indeed, very strong, and he rooted tough weeds out of arid soil with every chop. The row was only twenty feet long; soon he was at the end.

“Want me to pile these weeds beside the garden?”

“Andy can get them. You faster than a lot of two armed men. Can you keep it up?”

“Ma’am, your marksmanship and demeanor inspire me.”

That drew a laugh from her. “You don’t talk like a Texan. You from some tobacco country plantation?”

“Dirt farm, Carolina hill country.”

“OK, hillbilly, get on with the next row. Andy, get him some water, I’ll watch him till you get back.”

The boy trotted off to the well, Spook at his side.

“Why you limping?”

“I turned my ankle this morning. It’s better.”

“Doing what?”

“I was – – jumping – – down a short hill; stumbled.”

“Uh, huh. Jumping off a freight train, maybe?”

He turned to face her.

“Ma’am, I ain’t no trouble maker and I’m a hard worker. I appreciate you letting me work for some food, and I’d appreciate it a lot if you’d let me wait by the creek till my friend comes back for me. Then I’ll be on my way.”

“You a Christian?”

“Ma’am?”

“You heard me.”

“Well – – yes, ma’am, I’m a God-fearing man.”

“You swear to God you’re no trouble or threat?”

Bo looked into her eyes and spoke from his heart.

“Ma’am, I swear to God I’m no trouble or threat.”

With narrowed eyes, she stared into his soul for a long moment. Finally, she spoke.

“Myra.”

“Ma’am?”

“My name’s Myra, not ma’am.”

“Yes ma’am - - Myra. Mine’s Calvin. Folks call me Bo.”

“I think you’re telling me the truth. That right, Calvin?”

“I am, Myra.”

“There’s no shame being a hobo in 1932, Calvin.”

He didn’t speak. His eyes dropped to the ground.

“I’d best finish your garden, ma’am. Myra.”

She went inside before Andy returned with a pail of water and a ladle. Then the lad began to stack pulled weeds.

Bo kept up his pace, and the remaining rows didn’t take very long.

“I believe that’s it. I can help move the pulled weeds.”

“You work fast, hard. I bet you were a good soldier.”

“I reckon. Not much work on the front, mostly waiting.”

“You ever kill a German?”

Bo looked at the lad and swallowed.

“I don’t tell lies, Andy. I may say I’d rather not answer some questions. I’ll answer yours if you make a promise.”

Andy got very serious. “OK.”

“When somebody tells you war is glory, don’t believe them.”

The lad cocked his head. His face scrunched. “OK.”

“It’s awful, Andy; terrible.”

They both stood still, fixed on one another.

“Do you still have your question?”

“You don’t have to answer, if you don’t want.”

Bo took a deep breath.

“Yes, once. They snuck up during the night. Suddenly bullets were flying and a German soldier came right at me. I put my bayonet into his chest. I’m the reason he’s gone.”

Andy gulped. “I’m sorry, Bo.”

“It’s not glorious, Andy. It’s not fun.”

They were quiet a little longer.

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